


Our Lives As Weapons

by WolfAtSea



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: F/M, Gen, Matt Fraction's Hawkeye setting, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-HYDRA Reveal, Post-Season/Series 01 Finale, This is a coming of age story, fraction!hawkeye
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-06-21 13:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15559086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfAtSea/pseuds/WolfAtSea
Summary: Clint Barton does not have the “bad habit” of adopting strays. He’s only ever picked up a former Russian assassin (Hell knows where Tasha is nowadays), a spoiled brat with passable aim (shut up, Katie-Kate - get your teenage ass back from L.A. and give me back my dog), and a pizza-loving dog from the Tracksuit Draculas. Three times does not make a habit, and he does not require an interv-Then he finds on his doorstep one Agent Grant Ward, looking so lost and alone, with all the Big Brother Issues in the world, and … well.Maybe he does need an intervention after all.





	1. #1

**Author's Note:**

> I will be taking great liberties with most characters' backstories - especially for Hawkeye. The goal is to fuse the Fraction comics and the MCU and AoS canons, and obviously I won't be following Season Two of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. very closesly.
> 
> Just roll with it? :P
> 
> Also working on a comic version of this story - let's see how that works out.

#1 

**Date: Redacted - might be Tuesday**  
  
**Location: New York, New York**

Okay. This looks …  
  
Not _too bad_ , believe it or not.  
  
I’m in a nondescript alley behind my apartment building in Bed-Stuy, surrounded by the Tracksuit Draculas, our unfriendly neighbourhood Russian mafia. They look like they want to beat me up. Maybe not kill me, like they promised last Christmas, cause I don’t see that many guns around. Just some crowbars and baseball bats - break a bone or two and toss me in a dumpster. They do that from time to time.  
  
Must be Tuesday.  
  
As for why this doesn’t look too bad:  
  
First of all, I’ve got my bow and quiver with me. That almost _never_ happens on our little back alley dates.  
  
Hence: Hawkeye: 1. Tracksuits: 0.  
  
The other thing is, this time I’m not alone. I ran into a - how do I put it - _comrade_ on my way here. Standing behind me at a perfectly defensible 75-degree angle in a rumpled suit, is one Grant Ward:  
  
Specialist, Level Seven.  
  
Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D..  
  
No wait, former.  
  
_Former_ agent of S.H.I.E.L.D..  
  
Then agent of HYDRA.  
  
Um, _former_ agent of HYDRA? It’s so hard to keep track nowadays.  
  
I do really hope that is the case. I don’t like turning my back to agents of HYDRA - just out of principle, since everybody I know tells me I don’t have any self-preservation instincts.  
  
Anyhow, Tracksuits. Right. Usually I ain’t got nobody on my side when they beat me up either, so a present or former agent of A.N.Y.T.H.I.N.G. not pointing a gun at me I’ll take.  
  
Hawkeye: 2. Tracksuits: 0  
  
Besides, traitor boy comes with gadgets. He fishes a pistol out of a back pocket. Cocks it, aims, eyes cold like a killer's. The thing looks like a toy gun, really. Makes a funny whirring sound when the energy bars on the side light up.  
  
The Commies are losing their shit.  
  
“What he have, bro?”  
  
“Glowy gun, bro!”  
  
“That alien tech, bro! Bad news, bro!”  
  
What can I say?  
  
Hawkeye: 3. Tracksuits: 0.  
  
I put on my best smirk. “You gonna need more guys, bro!”  
  
So the Tracksuits run away. Maybe to get more guys.  
  
Don’t know why, really. I’ve only got like two arrows left in my quiver, and superspy kid beside me looks absolutely beat: dark circles under his eyes, awkward stance trying to hide injuries, hands shaking. Hands shaking, really? I thought Coulson picked professionals.  
  
And that gun?  
  
“Alien tech my ass. That’s the night-night gun.” I kind of sing-song.  
  
Ward gives me a respectable murderous glare given his sorry state. “No! This is the night-night _pistol_.”  
  
The “you dumbass” doesn’t need to be said. Kid’s got potential.  
  
He puts the gun away wherever it came from, so I loosen my bow too. Not like he’d be carrying around a night-night gun - _pistol_ \- if he’s here to terminate me or something. No need to start a war with everyone. I do understand that, no matter what Kate might tell you.  
  
Anyway, we need to scram before Ivan gets more guys. And I need to figure out what this guy’s deal is, why he’s wandering around my building looking like a lost puppy recently thrown into traffic. I take issues with people throwing puppies into traffic.  
  
I try to be subtle.  
  
“So … rough times, eh?”  
  
Leave it to Grant Ward to cut right to the chase. “Natasha Romanoff sent me here.”  
  
Tasha? Man, what is she up to this time?  
  
Definitely on cue - kinda creepy, if you ask me - my StarkPhone buzzes. And buzzes again. And buzzes again. I groan theatrically and lift it to my face.  
  
**4 new messages from TASHA.**  
  
**Name: Grant Ward**  
  
**Age: 31**  
  
**Breed: Human**  
  
**Needs fur-ever loving home : >**  
  
I groan even more theatrically. “Aw snap.”  
  
The 31-year-old human says, sounding so small all of a sudden. “She said I can find a place … to crash here.”  
  
He looks like he needs it.  
  
And it’s not like I don’t have an empty bedroom.  
  
… Or own an apartment building. I look up at that the eight-story, brown-brick monstrosity without elevators. It looks like it’s mocking me.  
  
Damn, I don’t have any excuses, do I.  
  
I give a nod and a grin. “Okay … let’s go get you cleaned up.” Then I stop smiling and use my best Captain America voice. “But if you drag any of that HYDRA filth into my building, you’re dead, you hear me?”  
  
“Yes, sir.” He replies quickly. Like I said, kid’s got potential.  
  
And next time Katie-Kate yammers on about my “problem” with picking up strays? I’m telling her the Black Widow is an enabler.


	2. #2

#2  
  
“Welcome to the Circus.”  
  
(I lowkey want to name the building “the Circus”, for old time’s sake. Everyone I’ve ever run this by thinks it’s a _terrible_ idea. I’m still a bit miffed about that.)  
  
I put him up in my spare bedroom. It’s usually Kate’s room when she stays over. Not like the brat’s here right now.  
  
Might be just a bit too purple - and too Kate-y - for RoboSpy here.  
  
I know, I know - I own an apartment building. It’s got eight floors, and each floor has perfectly good empty units on it. But, lost puppy and everything? A very dangerous and armed lost puppy at that. I’m not sure I trust him around all my other legitimate, not-always-rent-paying tenants - all those Simones and Mini-Simones running around. At this point, I’m not sure I trust him around himself either. We’ll see.  
  
The thing is, I’m kinda in between strays right now. After hanging out with the cool kids - Captain America and Falcon are the cool kids, right? - for a while and dumping everything about our very secret Secret Agent life on the Internet, Natasha is off to “figure out her new cover”. Whatever that means. Kate has bailed out to L.A., taking my freakin’ dog with her. What a dipshit. Totally deserves having her room given to an ex-HYDRA nutcase.  
  
Me? I’m laying low. Got my hands full with this circus as it is. Gonna be Switzerland in this S.H.I.E.L.D.-HYDRA mess.  
  
Kid must be busted up, so I bully him into getting checked over. Doctor Anand’s great - helped with Lucky’s recovery and he even has a medical license to practise on humans from India. He gives his verdict soon enough: nothing broken, a few lacerations that need stitching up, tons of bruises, dehydration and malnutrition and all that crap. Also do all my friends lead dangerous lifestyles that don’t allow for any reasonable amount of sleep?  
  
“Not my friend.” I mutter.  
  
“You said the dog wasn't your dog, Mr. Barton.” The Doc counters. I tell him in atrocious Hindu that his snark is not appreciated - and can he give my not-friend a dog cookie after we are done here? Ward snorts. He’s taking all this remarkably well.  
  
“Not exactly a lot of time to sleep when you’re on the hunt, you know.” He explains as we head back to my place.  
  
“And what exactly have you been hunting?”  
  
“A HYDRA cell. For information.”  
  
“What kind of information?”  
  
“My brother.”  
  
Gosh, family secrets. Let me find a ten foot pole first.  
  
“Did … you … find what you were looking for?”  
  
“No.” His lips twitch a bit. “They realized I was alone and started, well, hunting me. They were quite successful -” He gestured at himself. “Until the Black Widow showed up. Then she confiscated all my other weapons and told me to ‘go home’. I told her I didn’t have a home.”  
  
Oookay.  
  
“Then she told you to come here?”  
  
He nods. Right. I guess I could name this building “Clint Barton’s Halfway Home for Morally Grey Former Assassins” instead. Maybe Bucky Barnes will drop by one of those days.  
  
“HYDRA goons gave you those?” I wave my hand to indicate the general area of his prized collection of bruises.  
  
He dips his chin and puts on a very earnest look. “These are mostly Natasha. I think Hill told her about … a certain comment I might have made.”  
  
I probably shouldn’t laugh this hard. I see some things Nat’s keeping in her new cover.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hey you want something to eat?” I despair at the barren state of my fridge. It’s been dark out for a while - the nightly rooftop potluck probably ended not long after I left, work night and all. That was hours ago. “I’ve got nothing here, unless you count … quick-freeze arrow tips. But I can order some takeout, or go buy you some pizza? There’s this place ‘round the corner …”  
  
“I’m all right.” I see him shake his head over on the couch. He’s staring at his hands. Been doing that for a while. “Thanks.”  
  
I could blab at him about doctor’s orders, I guess, but I’m not a mom. So I get two boxes from the freezer and toss one in his general direction, followed by a spoon. He catches both cleanly, and squints at the box like it might be poison.  
  
“Green tea ice cream - that Japanese thing? I stock up on those when Kate’s around. Works well as bribes.” It’s not exactly nutritious, but at least it's _something_.  
  
“I know what matcha is.” He sounds amused and/or offended; I can’t really tell. Well, world-travelling secret agent there, I almost forgot. Next thing I know he’s gonna be an expert in European cars and Jesus art too.  
  
“I’m not a huge fan, but it counts as green food, right?” He doesn’t exactly smile, but I can do this all day. “Come on, lemme show you the rooftop.” And he follows like a good little soldier.  
  
The roof’s plenty empty, like I said. It’s getting a bit chilly out already, but bearable for now. We sit on the ledge, legs dangling and elbows on the bottom railing. Like a pair of children. Except we don’t talk. The city is quieter now, but still loud enough to drown stuff out. A siren sounds in the distance, getting louder before moving away again. Ward pauses halfway through that un-Americanly tiny box of ice cream, spoon chattering against the soiled edge as his hand shakes. I can’t help myself.  
  
“What’s with that?”  
  
He clamps his hand around the spoon, hard enough that the knuckles turn white. He better not bend my cutlery. “It’s nothing.”  
  
“You’re a sniper too, no?” I want to kick myself as soon as I say it. This happens way too often.  
  
He clenches his jaw, shoving the spoon into the green slush like it pisses him off. I drink up the sludge at the bottom of mine as a peace offering.  
  
“I’d rather go get some sleep - if you don’t mind.” He says after a while, standing up.  
  
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll just be down real soon.”   
  
Then I yell as he ducks into the stairwell. “Hey, freeze that ice cream if you’re not gonna finish it.” I can’t think of anything more useful to say, so there.  
  
I lie back on the concrete with hands under my head. This isn’t as comfortable as it is during the day when the sun’s still out. And of course I can’t see any stars. That one couple on the second top floor are arguing near the window again. Peterson’s mutt starts barking. I ask nobody in particular: “Why the hell am I always in over my head?”


	3. #3

#3

Date: Redacted +1  
  
Location: New York, New York

I wake up at a completely unreasonable hour. Somebody's dog’s barking incessantly - probably Mitzi, based on the pitch. The sun’s barely up yet. I don’t think I can fall back to sleep, but I stay in bed anyway, thinking about life. That mostly involves watching the paint peel on my ceiling - really need to get a new superintendent. Kinda wish I hadn’t fired the last one on Saturday.  
  
Okay, focus, Clint. The matter at hand, don’t deflect: I’ve got a possibly homicidal, highly trained operative as a houseguest. He may or may not still be there when I go down eventually, but assuming he is … Even I can see that he’s Not Okay. He can pretend all he wants. I know his type. I’ve _been_ his type before. I don’t exactly remember how I pulled myself out of whatever hell hole I was in, but I do know it ain’t easy. I think I should help the kid. I just don’t know how to.  
  
Ward is, in fact, still there when I go downstairs. He’s sitting at the kitchen island, and looks like he’s been up for a while. Or maybe he never really slept - anybody’s guess. He looks even more awful than he did yesterday.  
  
“Where did you hide your coffee pot?” He asks, miserable.  
  
“It’s …” I scratch the back of my head. “Somewhere.” I think back to my brief stint in juvie, and how Mr. Jackson always screeched “Physical skills hone the mind! Hone the mind!”. Okay, I’ve never really developed a love for carpentry, but I have found a thing or two I like to do with my hands over the years. Calms my mind, almost always.  
  
“You feeling okay? Not too sore to do stuff?”  
  
“No. Yeah, I’m okay.” He replies quickly. I wonder if they train cadets in Operations to always reply that way. I wouldn't know.  
  
“All righty. We can grab coffee on the way - I’m gonna teach you how to shoot.”  
  
He narrows his eyes. “I know how to shoot.”  
  
“Not with weapons from the Paleolithic Age. I bet you don’t.”  
  
He gives me a “you’re stupid but I'm gonna indulge you for now” look. He’s very good at this look, I’ve realized. Man, he must’ve been such a lovely teenager.  
  
There’s a Boys and Girls Club two blocks east with a pretty neat range in the basement. I come here on the weekends sometimes to teach little kids how to shoot foam arrows, and in return they give me a free pass.  
  
We set up in the range. There’s nobody else here, so we could use real arrows, I suppose. But I pick up those sticks with funny marshmallow tips, just for kicks. I run through all the basics: how to hold the bow, how to nock an arrow, how to aim. Of course Superspy here has perfect form, elbow high, shoulders low.  
  
“Here, hit that dummy in the chest.”  
  
He breathes in and out slowly, then lets it fly.  
  
It goes wide.  
  
Really wide. Like, way off. I start to laugh. He glares at me like he wants to stick an arrows in me - one of those without the foam tips. Okay, to be fair, that dummy is really far away for a first-timer, but I can’t help myself.  
  
“It’ll come to you, kid.” I try clapping him on the shoulder. Get a hard flinch in response, and I pretend not to notice. “Here, try again.”  
  
When we get back from the range, it’s still hardly nine. People are piling out for work, but I have nowhere to be. Absolutely nowhere. Believe it or not, time moves very slowly when your employer of a decade has crashed and burned literally and your Super Secret Boyband is on a break and you’re sitting on a mountain of cash from being in that Boyband, among other things, so you don’t need to get your lazy ass to work. Ugh.  
  
My stomach comes to the rescue when it reminds me, for maybe the fifth time this morning, that I need to hunt down something to eat. I peek at the DAILY AGENDA sheet I pinned ironically on my fridge - “With a magnet, Clint! With a magnet!”.  
  
1\. Go help Mrs. Hudson catch the teapot thief  
  
Ah. That’s something I can do. Kate finds it hilarious that Mrs. Hudson is called Mrs. Hudson. I’m just happy that the old lady always have food for me when I go over. And if she wants Hawkeye to Avenge one of her teapots, then I’d do that too.  
  
“Come on, Buzz. We’ve got a robber to catch.”  
  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
“You said the teapot was your mom’s, Mrs. Hudson?” I ask around a mouthful of leftover shepherd's pie.  
  
“Chew your food, Clint.”  
  
“Yes, ma’am.” I swallow dramatically. “Now, the teapot?”  
  
Beside me, my new charge picks at the mountain of food Mrs. Hudson has piled on his plate. Apparently she shares Doctor Anand’s opinion that he needs to eat more. I don't have the same problem - she's always complaining that I clear out all the food in her apartment. It's really not fair.  
  
"Yes, the teapot. My dad gave it to mama when he got back from Germany after the war. Growing up, I thought it was the prettiest little thing I'd ever seen." She says. "Grant, dear, would you like more water? Maybe something else to drink?"  
  
"Water is fine, Mrs. Hudson." He smiles beautifully at her. He does have a very nice smile when he puts it on. I've been told that my smiles are more of the "shit eating grin" variety. I'm starting to think Mrs. Hudson already likes "Grant" more than me, what with that New England accent and perfect manners. Not to mention his PDA with Mitzi. That dog does not have good table manners, stomping around our feet and putting her meaty little paws on our laps.  
  
“Mitzi, get off Grant. He might bite.”  
  
Ward scratches the terrier behind her wispy ears. “I don’t mind.” Oh hell. His face looks _soft_. And stupidly happy. So I leave them be.  
  
After I wolf down my second helping and Ward more or less finishes his plate, Mrs. Hudson shows us to the study where the pretty teapot from Cap's decade was taken.  
  
"Oh I kept the place clean for two days. Didn’t even let Mitzi in there, no.” The old lady wrings her hands. “Protect the crime scene - that’s what they do on TV, right?”  
  
“Yeah. You did good, Mrs. Hudson.” There on the shelf between old notebooks and cook books are two matching teacups. But the teapot is gone. They are nice-looking things, complicated black patterns on thin white porcelain. But what burglars would just take a teapot? Not even the teacups that go in a set! “When did you say it got taken again?”  
  
“Sunday? No, Monday - I was dusting on Monday morning, yes I was … and it was still there. But that evening it was gone!”  
  
“Okay. Was anyone else in your rooms on Monday?”  
  
“Oh no, no one else. Just me and Mitzi - it’s always just me and Mitzi, you know that, Clint.”  
  
“Do you lock the door, ma’am?” Ward asks.  
  
“It’s Brooklyn, boy. Of course I lock the door.”  
  
“Windows?” He supplies again with a shrug.  
  
“Yeah, could be windows.” I agree. We are only three floors up after all. “You know what, I’m still thinking kids did this. A prank, ya know? Like Dickie and his gang are always climbing all over the fire escapes …”  
  
“Barton?” Ward calls by the window. “I don’t think this is a prank.”  
  
I get closer and I see what he sees. Right by the latch, there’s rectangular shape traced out on the window, like a piece of glass was cut out and glued back in. Very carefully too. So someone can open the window when it’s latched shut.  
  
“Well snap.”  
  
“This is professional.” He echos my thought.  
  
“Someone was in here? Clint?” Mrs. Hudson sounds scared now, and I feel like crap. “Clint? Did someone break … break in?”  
  
I nod grimly. “Yeah, yeah I think so.” I put my hands on her hunched shoulders. “But hey, you know what - look at me, Mrs. Hudson - I’m gonna find out who, okay? I’m gonna get to the bottom of this. You’re safe here. This is my building, and I’ll make sure of that.” Everyone better be safe here.  
  
Then I turn to Ward. “Let’s go check out the alley way. May be something on the fire escape.” I know it’s unlikely, this whole thing being so professionally done and all, but I just need to move. Gotta start somewhere. Kid looks unimpressed, but he follows when I head downstairs.  
  
We search the back alley for a good ten minutes. Walk it from end to end several times. I even climb the fire escape up to the fourth floor and down twice. Nada. Not a trace. Nothing but the occasional unidentified fluid under our feet and the sweet smell of early summer garbage wafting from that dumpster in the middle.  
  
I’m just about to give up and say let’s go back when Ward stiffens in front of me. Before I even get a chance to ask what’s going on, he grabs my arm and starts to drag me towards the street.  
  
The next second, the dumpster explodes.  
  
_Well._  
  
Like Dickie and his friends might say, shit just got real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the action comes to Bed-Stuy! 
> 
> Reviews, please? Would love to hear what everyone thinks so far!


	4. #4

#4 

I can’t hear anything above all that ringing for the longest time. Or maybe it’s just a minute or two. I can’t really tell. Someone hauls me to my feet and drags me into the sun and I might be whining a little. Just want to dig the Snails out, then curl up and die. There’s also blood in my right eye - just a scratch on my forehand, I’m pretty sure. Have had way worse for breakfast.  
  
By the time the ringing has gone quiet enough for me to think, the cavalry has shown up, snaking around the entire block. I end up tailgating on an ambulance with a piece of gauze stuck to my head, while Grant Ward out of all people is out there giving a statement to cops #1 and #2. Cops #3 through #11 or so have their hands full keeping everyone away from where it _kaboom_ -ed. I never knew there were this many people living in my building - does nobody have work? Maybe I should start collecting rent more diligently.  
  
Superspy finally catches a break and heads my way. I pop one of the Snails back in even though I don’t really want to.  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
“Peachy.” I poke at the gauze. “You?”  
  
“Yeah.” He sits down beside me. “I heard a sound, some kind of beeping coming from that dumpster. But I guess you...”  
  
I wave the other Snail in a figure eight. “Stark tech. The best money can’t even buy. But I still miss stuff, sometimes. Kinda used to it by now.”  
  
He looks at me in that way, I don’t know - it’s not really pity. I just laugh; did he think he was the only -? We can all be broken toy soldiers together.  
  
The firefighters stop drowning that poor dumpster. I might actually miss it. The Tracksuit Draculas like to dump me in there sometimes to make a point, and it’s not that uncomfortable once you get past the smell. I hop off the ambulance to survey the damage. The west side of my building’s wall is completely charred up till the third floor. All the windows are busted.  
  
“Aw, building, no.”  
  
Forget about hiring one new handyman. I need maybe two dozen.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“ … let’s take a step b-”  
  
“German relic -”  
  
“I’m just saying let's -”  
  
“World War II -”  
  
“ - not jump to conclusions here. It might not even be HYDRA or S.H.I.E.L.D.”  
  
Ward takes a deep breath and starts from the top. “German relic. World War II. Glowy pattern on the inside.”  
  
Did I mention the inside of the missing teapot freaking glows at night? Yeah, Mrs. Hudson left out that tiny detail earlier in the morning.  
  
“Am I the only one who’s worked with S.H.I.E.L.D.?”  
  
“I mean, there was nothing especially high-tech or, uh, alien-y about the explosion?” I scratch my head. “Um, what if it’s just a regular thief stealing a regular, expensive teapot? What if it was … oh, a part of a very pricey collectable set?”  
  
There, that “you’re stupid” look again. Okay, I do deserve it this time.  
  
“Look, I’m just saying … maybe let’s not brand it an 0-8-4 just yet.”  
  
“And I’m just saying that’s the most likely conclusion. And we should treat it as one because it’s probably dangerous.”  
  
“Fine. But not like we’ve got anything to go on right now.”  
  
He nods. “I do wish we had visuals …”  
  
Cop #2, as known as Sergeant Brock, has allowed me to keep up with the investigation. Either because I own the freaking building that was bombed or because I’m an Avenger. I’ve decided not to mention the agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. thing for the moment.  
  
And so far what the Serg can give me is … not much. Nothing unusual about the explosives used. It looks homemade, if anything, could be put together in any Hell’s Kitchen gang’s HQ or just any edgy teenager’s basement. And we don’t have eyes - the CCTV doesn’t cover the alleyway itself, and the traffic cams around it haven’t picked up anything. Before the CSI guys come back with a more detailed report, we are just sitting on our hands ...  
  
Wait a second. “No. I mean, yes, we do have eyes.” I make a beeline for the door. “I need to talk to one of the Mini-Simones.”  
  
All of the Simones are at home. And scared shitless. Their living room faces the fireworks show, and it’s now covered in broken glass and soot. They are all on me like a whirlwind the moment the door opens.  
  
“Clint! Oh my god, Clint - what happened? Danny called me so I came back from work, but they don’t tell us anything! Nobody knows anything!” Then she sees the bandage on my head. “You’re hurt! Are you all right?”  
  
“Yeah. I … I don’t know what happened, but I’m gonna find out.”  
  
“I know you will, I just … I’m scared, Clint.” She looks like she might cry. Damn. “I thought we were safe here, with all those crazy things happening in Manhattan last year …”  
  
The smallest Mimi-Simone peels himself from my leg, and beams up at us. “Mama, it’s okay. Clint’s an Avenger, remember? He’s got this.”  
  
I give him a pat on the head. “Yeah, darn right, buddy. I’ve got this. And this is my friend Grant - we are gonna find out who did this, okay?”  
  
“Is Grant a superhero too?” The boy narrows his eyes at Ward, who already has the friendly and dependable act on.  
  
“Um, yeah. Something like that.” I turn to the other boy. “Now Danny - remember when I gave you my old phone so you can film kitty cats in the alley?”  
  
“Uh huh.”  
  
”Was it set up when it -” I meme an explosion.  
  
“Yeah!”  
  
“Okay. I’m gonna need that phone.” Then I take in the minefield that is now Simone’s living room floor, and grab Danny by the collar before he can charge in. “On second thought, you stay here.”  
  
I manage to retrieve the phone from under an overturned bookshelf. The screen’s cracked to nine kinds of hell, but the memory must still be there. It’s a Gen 3 StarkPhone, so it’s about as hardy as a 2001 Motorola on the inside. I plug it into my computer and we are set.  
  
“You teach your neighbourhood kids to set up surveillance.” Ward deadpans as I click on the video file. The phone doesn’t have that much memory so the tape loops over itself every 24 hours, but that’s all we need.  
  
“Yup. I’m a genius. Starting them real young here.” He doesn’t seem to think it’s that funny. “Okay … I hate fast forwarding movies.” The image is sort of dark, and the camera angle isn’t great - because really, I set this up to film alley cats jumping off fire escapes - but we do have a decent view of the dumpster. I drag the cursor to the very end - 9:55 a.m., 10:01 a.m., 10:04 a.m.. And boom! “Let’s go back.”  
  
We show up on screen at 9:52. We watch ourselves go in and out of range of the camera, canvasing the alley. Nothing to see here. So I play it backwards at three times speed, until - “There.”  
  
Four minutes before we get to the alley, this guy in a hoodie tosses a backpack into the dumpster. Too bad for him, he looks up right into the camera as he leaves. Too bad for us -  
  
“I know this guy.” We say at the same time, then stare at each other.  
  
“Bennett Lau.”  
  
I take over. “Level Five. Wasn’t even a Specialist.”  
  
But we all know who Benny is because that one day Fury wanted to make a big speech in the mess at the Triskelion, he spilled chocolate milk all over Maria Hill.  
  
“Don’t you dare say ‘I told you so’”.”  
  
“As you wish, sir.”  
  
This is so unfair. Ugh. So much for being Switzerland.  
  
“Oookay. Time to bring out the big guns.” Looks like some dunderhead just bombed Zurich.


	5. #5

#5 

We jump right into it. First step, track down Milky Benny. And since Big Brother doesn’t really exist anymore …  
  
“Don’t worry. I know a guy that knows a guy who shouldn’t really be helping me but will do it anyways.” I tap my foot as I wait for the first guy to pick up. “Man, striking out on our own - it’s like we are in one of those _Mission: Impossible_ movies.”  
  
One thing those _Mission: Impossible_ movies don’t show is just how much waiting there is in the business when you don’t have an HQ you can call. First the guy I know has to get in touch with the guy he knows. Then he has to convince him to help me even though he shouldn’t. Then the second guy needs to actually track down Bennett Lau. Maybe he is rather good at this gig after all - certainly has gotten better since his milk spilling days.  
  
I mean, sure, I’ve been on plenty ops where I spend most of the time waiting - I’m not a sniper for nothing - but this. This feels different. Maybe it’s because this one hits too close to home - right at home, in fact. On an op, I can be whoever I want to be. Here I’m just me, and I kinda thought I left most of that secret agent stuff in the rear-view mirror. Plus, half of the time I had Tasha with me, and she makes everything interesting, even staying cooped up in a safe house in Belarus. I wish she was here right now.  
  
The afternoon passes quickly enough. I haul all my spy-fi gear from the basement lockers, and Ward produces some more toys from that duffle of his. We sweep the entire loft for bugs three times, then lay out our inventory on and around the coffee table. Looks like a safe house in here. I hate it. I make a point to not take my work home, but this is like the exact opposite.  
  
I do have safe houses still, but I don't think the situation calls for that yet. At least, the people in my building will freak out even more if they see me bailing. Can't have that. Even if staying means I have to repeat “I’m an Avenger - I've got this” about two dozen more times. If I say that enough, maybe I'll even start believing it.  
  
“We call this an ICER, actually. Don’t ask me what it stands for. Sounds better than the ‘night-night gun’, at least.” Ward takes the gun apart to show me the inside.  
  
“Cool ring to it.” I approve.  
  
He cleans the weapon thoroughly, handling it as reverently as one would a real gun. “The … lab monkeys on my team made it all by themselves. There’s also a grenade, here.” He hands me a tube-like thing. “ That uses the same dendrotoxin. Knocks hostiles clean out.”  
  
“Awesome. But lemme show you something cooler.”  
  
In exchange, I give him a long lecture on the many, many trick arrows I have in this apartment - until he laughs. While my new padawan has made progress in shooting marshmallow arrows, I’m not sure I’d trust him with exploding arrows just yet.  
  
Then I fire up my computer and do some digging of my own.  
  
“Shield and lies dot com?” Ward looks over my shoulder, amused.  
  
“Tacky, right? But they've got the best collection of S.H.I.E.L.D. files out there. Grabbed them all before the CIA could take them down and horde them all for themselves.” While Natasha’s off testifying in front of the big shots and Couldon’s leading the Resistance, I've been sitting at home doing my readings. Funny how much dirty laundry I missed out on by choosing to stay Level Six.  
  
Bennett Lau, it turns out, was stationed at the Triskelion when S.H.I.E.L.D. fell. Regular intelligence duty, waiting to be rotated out for the next op. Never got the call. Disappeared before the dust settled, same way with most of Operations. No way to tell if he even survived the whole thing.  
  
More importantly -  
  
“There's no way to tell if he’s HYDRA or S.H.I.E.L.D..” I conclude after an hour of hitting walls. “He could've been loyal to _anyone_.” And it’s not meant as a barb, not really, but Ward very pointedly looks away.  
  
We give up after six and head up to the roof, and it’s empty. Except for Grills, who’s at the grill.  
  
“Hawkguy!” He waves his tongs at me. On the grill there sizzles one sad little burger. “Didn't think anyone else’s gonna show. People are scared, ya know.”  
  
I make a face. “Even scared people gotta eat.”  
  
Grills shrugs. “I dunno, man. People are trying to go stay somewhere else for a while. Heard Lenny and his wife talking earlier.”  
  
“No. There must be folks who don’t have places to go.” Like Mrs. Hudson. Like Simone and Danny and Anton. And I’m not going anywhere. It’s a perfect night out, not too warm with a little breeze. Like Hell I’d let a tiny dumpster bomb scare these people into hiding in their rooms. “I’m gonna fix this.” I count out a handful of cash to my new shadow.  
  
“You remember that grocery store around the corner?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Go buy all the burgers and hot dogs you can get. I’m gonna go violate my own noise regulation.”  
  
Which involves me going floor by floor, banging on each door - “Dinner on the roof! Dinner on the roof!”; conscript some scrawny teens - “Dickie, pause that stupid game. I need ya to DJ for a dinner party”; make the largest pizza order in my life - “... and extra cheese. Deliver it to the roof. Yes, the roof. I’m feeding the building”.  
  
And it works. People show up one by one. I give all the kids coins for slushies from that ice cream truck around the corner. All the windows on the west wall are missing glass, but we’ve got ourselves a party.  
  
“And for my next trick,’ I announce once the adults are one or two drinks in. “I’ll break that beer bottle with this dollar.”  
  
“Naw Clint. Again?”  
  
I grin. “Nah, this time it’s gonna work. I’ve had practice.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You don't think it’s time to call in help, do you? I know Director Coulson and his Boy Scouts have their hands full, but …”  
  
It’s an hour or so after dark, and we are back to staring at the spyware yard sale in my living room. Ward rounds on me immediately.  
  
“You know about Coulson. How did you find out? It’s not in the files.”  
  
“Psssh come on. I know your team got great hackers and all, but our Boyband has our own hacker too. His name is Tony Stark. So of course I know about Phil.”  
  
“But he doesn’t know that you know.” He winces. “At least, he _didn’t_.”  
  
I shrug lightly. “If he wanted me to know, he would’ve told me. If he didn’t, well, he must have a reason. I wasn’t gonna go muck that up.”  
  
“You really trust him.”  
  
“Of course - Phil’s the one that brought me in from the cold. I might not trust the system, but I trust him.”  
  
The streets start to quiet down, and we still don’t hear back from the guy. I try to put on some TV, but _Dog Cops_ is on a break and there’s nothing else good on. Maybe I should’ve gotten HBO or something. Beside me, traitor boy sinks into the couch, staring at nothing in particular.  
  
“Hey, you can turn in, you know. I doubt we will get a hit tonight.”  
  
“Yeah.” He sighs quietly. “In a bit.” He doesn’t sound quite right. Now that I look for it, he doesn’t look quite right either. Kind of … dark? None of that magic crap, mind you. He’s just off. Does that even make sense?  
  
In the afternoon, we were both okay. Comparing gadgets, talking shop - it was easy. Like we were both still agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.. Before alien gods and undead Nazis and everything got complicated. And he was perfectly fine on the roof, laughing with all my neighbours, even letting Anton climb on top of his shoulders. But now … I don’t know. If that was all an act, then he’s a damn good actor. Maybe Coulson did pick professionals. Or did something happen between then and now? Did I miss - God please don't let it be something I've said. I've got a terrible track record for this.  
  
Now we are two grown men trying to push off our bed times. Sleeping is dangerous, I get it. Boy do I get it. But I know in this line of work, I’m more of a danger to myself and others if I don’t try to get those eight hours every day.  
  
“I’m thinking he might not be HYDRA.”  
  
“Eh?”  
  
“Milky Benny - he might not be HYDRA. Not necessarily.”  
  
“We’ve been over this.” But he sounds like he’s glad to go through this again. Beats staring into nothing and looking gloomy. “That bomb was meant for us. You're an Avenger and just about the most famous S.H.I.E.L.D. agent out there - “  
  
“Former S.H.I.E.L.D., and not as famous as Natasha.”  
  
“ - most famous former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent out there besides the Black Widow. And I - “ He grimaces, “well, I told Coulson absolutely everything I know about HYDRA. Every HYDRA agent now wants my head.”  
  
“There are plenty S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who’d want my head too. After Loki. Did you know I killed thirty-six people? In two days. That bastard Loki only got eighty, and I managed thirty-six. Almost blew Fury’s flying ship out of the sky too. Cap wasn’t the first one to attempt that.” Helicarriers still seem a bit absurd to me. “I saw the way they look at me, after New York. The agents. So I didn’t want to be Level Seven when Fury asked. Coulson might’ve picked me for his dream team if I’d said yes, huh?”  
  
I guess I understand the kid’s broodiness thing. Sometimes, after dark, I keep the lights off and take a minute to feel sorry for myself. Kate and Tasha love to call me out on it.  
  
“That wasn’t you.” Whatever I thought he’d say, it wasn’t this. “I read the files. John Garrett wanted to recruit you for a while there. Wanted to corrupt an Avenger, stick it in Fury’s face. But I knew it wouldn't work because it was all Loki.”  
  
“I know. Yeah, logically, I know. But sometimes when I think back on everything I’ve done in my life and start wondering what was me and what wasn’t, I get on a real slippery slope there, you get it?”  
  
“I guess.” He says after a beat too long. “But what _I_ did was all me.”  
  
Oops. Maybe I’m not being so suave here. And that sounds like a damn confession, and I’m not a freaking priest. I turn off the TV and turn to face him.  
  
“Look, man, I know this isn’t easy, and the past year has been … messed up? But if you’re gonna be in this with me,” I wave at the night-night gun - _ICER_ \- and the much more lethal arsenal we have laid out. “I need you to be at your a hundred percent, okay?”  
  
He nods, not really meeting my eyes.  
  
“And I don’t do things halfway - I either go in alone, or I have someone who’s got my back for sure. Have you got my back, Ward?”  
  
He runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, Barton. I’ve got your back.”  
  
“Bingo.” I stand up and yawn. “Go get some sleep, kid. Hope we’ve better luck hunting tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long one here, and there are EMOTIONS!  
> I’m not great at them, but Clint’s worse, so writing him trying to untangle emotions is actually really fun :P


	6. #6

#6

Date: Redacted + 2  
  
Location: New York, New York

The day starts like any other. I get up, still can’t find my coffee pot, go on a run at Prospect Park with another living being for the first time since Katie left with Lucky. It feels nice. It’s not that I particularly like running or anything, but needs must. God knows I’m no health freak otherwise. Specialists hardly last past age thirty-five. I’m turning thirty-eight in a few months. Before I know it, I’ll be joining Cap’s Geriatric Secret Agent Club. Gotta keep this machine well-oiled till then.  
  
We still don’t have a lead on Bennett Lau. The guy I put on hacker duty says the hacker guy he knows is _working on it_. We know Benny hasn’t been to his family house since S.H.I.E.L.D. went down thanks to this other guy I know who knows people in the Baltimore PD. It’s just his dad there, anyway, and he’s pushing eighty. If we don’t get a hit in the next day, maybe superspy and I will get desperate enough to go interrogate an actual geriatric.  
  
Doctor Anand makes us sit side-by-side on the examination table like kids that got in a fight while he fusses over bandages that need changing. His first non-human patients haven’t come in yet. Feels like a regular work day for me.  
  
“Mr. Barton, maybe you should stop doing dangerous things?”  
  
“What, dangerous things like standing beside a dumpster?” On second thought, dumpsters are plenty dangerous with Ivan and his bros around. “Hey, can I get a sucker after? Or do you only have dog cookies? What do you think dog cookies taste like?”  
  
He shoos us out and we’re off to detective duty.  
  
“I might have a picture of the teapot, Clint. My dad must’ve taken some.” Mrs. Hudson says as I raid her fridge. “I’ll go find it - help yourself to the pasta, Grant. I bet Clint isn’t feeding you right.” Then she disappears into her closet, and I bet we won’t be seeing her in the next hour.  
  
“So unfair.” I mutter even as I scoop half of the pasta onto my plate. “First, everyone was shitting on how I feed my dog. Now it’s how I feed my guest.” I slide the container over with style. “Knock yourself out - you better finish this.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson does find a faded old picture of the teapot. Ward spends the entire morning searching the S.H.I.E.L.D. and Lies database for 0-8-4s that look like teapots. Or have similar patterns. Turn up empty on both counts. I’m at least doing something more productive: having a screaming match with the contractor that’s supposed to fix the windows. What kind of landlord would I be if we don’t get this fixed within the week?  
  
In the afternoon, I drag RoboCop to the archery range again. There _is_ progress, but I know it’s killing him, not hitting wherever he wants. At least Katie came to me already trained at her dad’s insanely well-appointed country club. He crosses his arms and almost pouts. “What’s the point? Why would I ever want to use a bow on an op?”  
  
“It’s silent.” I start counting out fingers. “And … no, that’s about it. _You_ really wouldn’t want to use a bow, pretty much ever.” He pouts harder. See, Coulson? This is why I turned down that part-time Academy gig. “But for me? Trick arrows. I dare you to look me in the eyes and tell me you’d never want to shoot an exploding arrow. Or an electric arrow. Or a _boomerang_ arrow.”  
  
“... why would you ever want a boomerang arrow?” But he picks the bow back up anyway. I’m never letting him meet Katie-Kate.  
  
Sometime in the afternoon, my phone rings and our luck turns.  
  
“... last sighted at JFK, gate 365 … boarding Cathay Pacific CX617, non-direct to Hong Kong … Okay got it. Thanks a ton, man.”  
  
I turn to Ward. “Told you my guy’s guy would deliver.”  
  
“Details?”  
  
“So he has luggage with him. Traveling under a known alias. Bought ticket at the counter.”  
  
“Best case: he’s our teapot thief and he’s off to meet a buyer.”  
  
“Worst case: it’s a trap!” I don’t do a great Ackbar impression. Either that, or the poor kid hasn't even seen _Star Wars_. “Medium case: we grab him in HK and have a lil’ heart-to-heart. And make him pay for renovations.”  
  
Ward nods, pretty much ignoring me. “That flight makes a stop in Vancouver, but we won’t catch up to him unless we get on a direct flight …” He frowns at his phone. “In the next two hours.”  
  
“Yeah.” I’m already tossing stuff into my go bag. “So?”  
  
He stares at me, still holding the phone. Why isn’t he packing already? “We’ll need to rush to JFK. And the tickets are gonna be pricey. If we do this the legitimate way, that is ...”  
  
“Oh. Nah I was gonna just book a plane. We’ve got plenty of time.”  
  
“You’re going to charter a plane? To Hong Kong?”  
  
“Yeah? That’s a thing I can do, I think. At least, Tony says so.” I root around the disaster pile by the TV for my charger. “What? I’m, like, crazy rich. What else am I gonna use money for?” It’s true. Growing up, I’ve never had more money than enough to buy clothes and food, but during my merc days, I pulled in so much cash I had no idea what to do with it. And Coulson never let Big Brother confiscate my gold, for … reasons. And turns out, once you’ve got a dozen or so million? Money makes money by itself. On Wall Street, maybe - I’ll never really understand it. I just send my consultant a real nice Christmas card every year.  
  
Ward wears a long-suffering look. Everybody masters that look eventually, if they hang around me enough. I’m a great influence.  
  
“That does makes things a lot easier.” He finally concedes. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When I fully wake up, the cabin lights are still dimmed. The crew has left us alone like I asked. I’ve been drifting in and out of a doze - I’m not exactly sleepy, but trans-Pacific flights are _long_ , and I’m working up the pre-op calm. I think I must’ve been dreaming. Not exactly bad dreams, just one about almost missing a train - or is it a plane? - that happens pretty often. Bit of an adrenaline surge, then I usually come to before I even find out if I make it.  
  
This time I’m pretty sure I was woken up by someone freaking crying.  
  
Kid’s twisted up in that thin airplane blanket across the aisle, and he’s saying things. I have the Snails in, but I can only make out him begging someone not to make him “do it” and something that’s “supposed to float”. Still makes me feel downright awful hearing it.  
  
Okay. Time to intervene. I’ve done this for Tasha enough times, and she for me. Picking up one of those completely useless throw pillows, I launch it at the other bed. Bullseye. He bolts up and murders the pillow - except pillows can’t die, so good for it - before finally figuring out what’s going on. He plops back down bonelessly, breathing hard.  
  
“Water?” I toss him a bottle and he catches it. Done - all without leaving my lie-flat seat.  
  
He eventually finds his voice when I’m back to staring at the blue-ish cabin lights.  
  
“I’m sorry.” Psssh, what for? “And thank you.”  
  
“Don’t mention it, kid.”  
  
We do this often enough, next time it’s probably gonna be me who wakes up crying. It ain’t pretty, but what can you do?  
  
Like I said, sleeping is dangerous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And let the jet-setting begin! What good spy story doesn't have a gratuitous amount of globe-trotting?
> 
> But don't worry - we'll be back in Brooklyn soon enough. Once the boys get closer to the stolen teapot ...
> 
> Reviews pls? o.O


	7. #7

#7

**Date: Redacted + 4(?) - time zones are screw-y**  
**Location: Hong Kong SAR, China**

“This is a tourist trap, right? I’m ninety percent sure this is a tourist trap.”  
  
Ward doesn’t even dignify me with an answer, stalking onward. We are deep in the Tai O fishing village on the island of Lantau. Surrounded by cold drink vendors, Asian tourists playing follow-the-leader, and, of course, white people that ohh and ahh at every single little thing. And the smell - if we stay here any longer, I’m sure the dead fish smell is gonna seep into our pores, and I’ll never wash it out. Whatever I expected on an op in Hong Kong - I was secretly hoping for the infiltrating a sleek high-rise with very climb-able vents variety - it wasn’t this.  
  
We are dressed like tourists, at least. Shorts and that Captain America shirt Kate insists looks ridiculous on me. Our international businessmen cover we wisely chucked at the airport. I’ve got sweat plastering my newly dyed hair and sneaking under my Ray-Bans. I’m starting to miss countries that understand the concept of spring.  
  
“Target entering building at two o’clock. We need to move faster.”  
  
Ward has on an equally ridiculous get up, made worse by that camera hanging around his neck. But it’s one of the toys he looted before high-tailing out of Coulson’s new S.H.I.E.L.D., so it’s worth carrying around. We are otherwise unarmed. Not at all. Even if I can still declare myself an agent, S.H.I.E.L.D. no longer has jurisdiction _anywhere_. And smuggling arms across Chinese customs would’ve been a bitch. As for my Avenger status, well … Not sure where that stands nowadays.  
  
My current go-to travel documents are under “Mickey Walsh”. Not the coolest name, but the papers are top grade. Mickey has dark hair and wears square glasses. Mickey is an average American Joe born and raised in the Midwest, on an Important Business Trip in Asia, doing some light sight-seeing when he’s got the time. Mickey doesn’t travel with concealed firearms or collapsible bows. Mickey definitely doesn’t, under any circumstances, conduct vigilante operations in his downtime with a Nazi terrorist on Communist soil.  
  
We were going to pick up gear from one of my contacts, but our lead on Benny was very small. As soon as we landed, we’ve been following him - until we reached this godforsaken tourist trap.  
  
Lau has disappeared into one of those dry seafood shops. They all look the same and smell terrible. “Let’s hope the shop has a back entrance.” I make a face. Really don’t want anything physical to go down in here. Towards the back, there’s this row of dried whole fish that are all staring at me accusingly.  
  
The shop does have a back entrance. We are there just in time to see Bennett Lau go through it. We try to follow suit, but an old lady starts yelling at me in a guttural language. Then an old man starts yelling too. I push through regardless. “Um - sorry - tourists - we’re a bit lost - coming through.” The fish look even more disapproving now.  
  
Once we step out into the sun again, I realize this is slowly turning into a bad idea. The back street is much emptier. A few more turns later, we don’t look like we are in the tourist area of the island anymore. Much harder for two white guys to blend in. Lau checks his surroundings regularly, but we are not levels six and seven for nothing. So far, we’ve been keeping enough distance that we could easily pass as a pair of Americans who stubbornly refuse to admit we’re lost.  
  
Not long after, Lau ducks into a small, metal-roofed house with tainted blue paint, and we are left out to dry.  
  
“Can’t go on the rooftop - way too loud.”  
  
I agree. There must be another way we can -  
  
“Oh, the chopstick houses.”  
  
“Stilt houses.” Ward corrects, scanning the area like a good little specialist. Lau hasn’t come out yet. There’s a Mercedes sports car parked out front, probably some big shot’s ride. Seems like this is where Benny was going all along. Also for your information, I know what the houses are called - the suspiciously happy tour guide on the boat we took to get here milked these South Asian relics in three different languages. At least, I assume he said the same thing in all three languages. For all I know, he could’ve saved the most boring speech for the Anglophones and imparted the secrets of the universe in the other two.  
  
The house is the first of a whole row on the water, standing several meters above the surface on thin, long wooden poles. I’ve seen tons of them in Thailand and Cambodia. Some of the poles are so old and worn that there are rungs nailed horizontally across them to hold the house up. I wouldn’t want to live in one of those lobster traps, but -  
  
“Doesn’t the bottom of that chopstick house look climb-able?”  
  
Ward does that little head tilt thing of his, but he doesn’t disagree. “I guess.”  
  
“Surveillance cameras?”  
  
“I don’t see any.”  
  
“Me neither.” I give a small shrug, scanning our surroundings again. There’s no one around. “Good enough for me. Let’s just hope _they_ can’t see _us_ either.”  
  
Tucking my sunglasses into a pocket, I maneuver myself onto one of the planks directly under the house. My bright idea seems less and less clever as time goes on. The wood is old and creaky and very sharp in places. I’m pretty sure I already have a splinter in my arm.  
  
“Hey Wonder Boy,” I whisper as Ward moves carefully to the rung beside me. “Hope your tetanus shots are up to date.”  
  
He glares at me to shut up. Fair enough.  
  
I flop onto my side to dig up a small mint tin from my shorts pocket. Taking out the content - two rubber earpieces - I plaster the tin cover inside up on the bottom of the house. Gingerly popping one of earpieces in, careful not to jostle the Snail, I pass the other one to superspy.  
  
“... don’t have it on me, of course. We need to talk about compensation first - I’m not doing this for free.”  
  
“I understand, Mr. Lau.”  
  
Surface bugs - 2000s technology, but it works surprisingly well here. Something to do with sound conducted by metal is my best guess.  
  
Ward presses a few buttons on the trick Canon he’s been carrying around, then extends his arm so I can see the tiny screen too. Backscatter scanner. I’m impressed. He clicks another button, and it switches to thermal imaging. Right on. Now we have both eyes and ears.  
  
“... we discussed was 30,000 American dollars as the starting price, and we will charge forty percent. I don’t believe that has changed?”  
  
Two guys are sitting down, presumably at a desk, and one of them is talking. The accent is somewhat British with a weird lilt. There’s one silhouette in each corner, who I assume are guards. Milky Benny is most likely the one standing in front of the desk, and he sounds like he’s from Maryland - which is true.  
  
“That’s good enough for me. And I have more where this comes from.”  
  
“Very well. The Master will be happy to hear that. I’m sure he won’t say no to the start of a business relationship. If you don’t disappoint us this evening, of course.”  
  
“I won’t.”  
  
“We will see tonight. 9 p.m. in the VIP room behind the waterfall. The buyers will be there. So will the Master and all his deputies. No funny business.”  
  
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”  
  
“As for the other thing I asked you to do?” A new voice. The accent is hard to place.  
  
“I planted it where you asked. But really, if you wanted them dead - “  
  
He’s suddenly interrupted by someone else. Harshly. In another language that I assume is Cantonese. I crane my neck further, and on the screen one of the guards has approached the sitting men. Asian languages have been on my to-do list forever - they just rank slightly lower than fixing my VCR and catching up on Dog Cops. I’ve got nada here.  
  
Mister Weird Accent and Mister No Accent both start talking in rapid fire Cantonese. I look to superspy for help - he’s a polyglot, right? I think I read somewhere - but he shakes his head. _Don’t know Cantonese/i >, he mouths. I think. Well, snap. Why are there dialects anyways?_  
  
Lying on the plank has grown really uncomfortable. The choppy wood digs into my back, and arching to see the screen doesn’t do my neck any good. Planes need better pillows. Or maybe I’m just getting too old for this.  
  
Dialects, dialects … Do Gen 4 Stark phones have speech translate for dialects? I wouldn’t put it past SI, but I got the cheaper model, so I’m not sure. Tony nagged at me for ages after he found out, and threatened to trash this one so he can gift me the top-line model. But I’m a grown man who can buy his own damn phone, thank you very much … I shift my weight and try to reach my phone in the other back pocket, and that’s when the wood falls out from under me with a loud clack. See? I knew the wood looked sketchy.  
  
For my next trick, I’m hanging there in the air doing the world’s most awkward plank, one foot on the stump and hands holding onto the nearest stable structure - which happens to be Ward, who looks decidedly unimpressed. The Cantonese gets louder and there are footsteps banging above our heads.  
  
“I think that means we gotta scram. Hold your breath.” And I fling the both of us into the water.  
  
A minute later, we poke our heads out at the opposite end of the row of houses. No sight line to the blue house anymore. Well … at least that means they can’t see us either.  
  
I shake my head like a wet dog, trying to get the water out of my ears. We bop in the water for a minute, five minutes, ten minutes ...  
  
“How long do you think -?”  
  
An engine revs and moves away, fast.  
  
“I think Milky Benny just gave us the slip.” I sigh mournfully. “Don’t you tell Tasha, Double-Oh; she’d never let us live it down.”


	8. #8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit more Hong Kong cause I love that place.

#8 Prose

“This is getting out of hand.” I fume. “I’m getting out of this mess, stat - I swear. At least, as soon as this is over. I don’t want any part of this HYDRA bullshit.”  
  
“When this is over?”  
  
“Yeah. Teapot. Can you believe this all started with a teapot?”  
  
Granted, we don’t even know how or if HYDRA has any part of this yet. But I’ve got a feeling, and my feelings are almost always right - at least in the shit-about-to-hit-the-fan department.  
  
“Well … I guess we can say this is a vacation. Does this count as a vacation? The sea, the sun, fish smell …” This isn’t the proudest moment in my specialist career. I doubt it’s Ward’s, either. I’m sitting on a rock off the beaten path, looking down onto the waves crashing against … more rocks. Wonder Boy has his back against the ocean, long limbs stretched out. We are both dripping seawater, two drowned rats keeping a lookout for any suspicious activity around us. There is none.  
  
I have the Snails laid out in front of me, drying. The earpieces from the mint tin are gone, sadly.  
  
“The Snails are okay with water, usually. This is Mark IV or V already - Tony’s done his magic. But I don’t wanna chance it. I’ve got my field aids on now.” I show him the more clunky ones I have in my ears right now. Their purple tails go around the shell of my ears and stick out. At least they are the same shade of purple as my other field gear, whenever I can get away with, in Kate's words, "harmless superhero posturing". “I don’t like those as much, but they handle really loud sounds better. Mutes the head-splitting noises but still lets me hear what’s going on, mostly. And I deal with a lot of ‘bangs’ on this job. You out of all people would know.”  
  
Ward nods. He has this look on whenever my banged up hearing comes up. I don’t think he’s an “ableist” or something, but still. I dunno.  
  
I try to babble on some more, but even I run out of stuff to say sometimes. Ward stays quiet. I’m kinda alone with my thoughts, and I don’t like it. But we can’t get a move on and escape from this dreaded island to a bigger island until, well, we stop looking like drowned rats. That’d sure stick out on the ferry ride back.  
  
Some seagulls squawk overhead. Then eventually they leave too. There are villagers walking around sometimes, but they pay us no mind. I wonder if people still fish as a living here. It must be eighty-five out - how are my clothes not drying at all?  
  
“I don’t know my …” He says real quiet, all of a sudden. I almost can’t pick it up above the waves. I poke at my aids some, not to be passive aggressive or anything; he doesn’t seem to notice. “I don’t know my place in all this.”  
  
I snort. “Trust me on this - I don’t either. Like, yesterday we were looking for Mrs. Hudson’s teapot cause I was too lazy to find brunch someplace else.”  
  
There’s a breeze for like a minute, and I turn my face to it. The next moment it’s gone. My clothes are still soaking wet, but I’m pretty sure half of that is sweat. Yucks.  
  
“You travel under your own name.” He cocks his head. “Your passport - when I chartered that plane? It’s under ‘Grant Ward’. You’re not worried? Running into old friends and stuff?”  
  
“No. Well, no more than usual.” He snorts. “‘Grant Ward’ didn’t officially exist for a while. I got these papers made only weeks ago, after I … got out.”  
  
“Huh. I would’ve sworn it’s genuine.”  
  
“I know people. Back when HYDRA came out, you know, all the ‘out of the darkness, into the light’ crap?”  
  
“Yeah.” Boy was that tacky.  
  
“We had this … hacker on our team, and she …”  
  
“Skye, no last name - that girl Coulson picked up.” I show off. “What? Told you we got Tony Stark as our hacker.” That, and I might’ve been stalking Coulson’s team a little bit. Come on, just a teeny tiny bit. Who can blame me? It’s not every day your old SO comes back from the dead and tries to keep that a secret from you.  
  
“Anyway, she, ah, she erased us all. Deleted everything.”  
  
“Was that weird?”  
  
“I don’t know?” He sounds honestly confused at that. “A little weird, I guess - probably less than it should be. I’m not sure.”  
  
“Huh. I would’ve found it super freaky.” I’ve used names that are not mine over the years, lived lives that are not mine, played roles, answered to different masters - but through it all, by some miracle, I’ve kept at being Clint Barton. People know me by that name. I’ve still got a juvie record. There are still dusty old posters with “Clint Barton as the Amazing Hawkeye” on them out there somewhere. Long as I keep that name, even though it was given to me by no-good parents, I’d like to think I hold on to who I am.  
  
“You know what that means, don’t you? That means you could be _anybody_.” I try to look on the bright side. “You don’t officially exist - you can make yourself someone. Anyone you want to be.” Ending up sounding like a motivational poster was not the intention.  
  
“Yeah. I know. Thing is ...” He shakes his head, letting out one of those dry laughs that sound old. “I don’t know who I want to be.”  
  
Yeah, fair enough.  
  
“But you - shouldn’t you know your place in this mess? You’re Hawkeye.” Yeah, people accuses me of that pretty often. I’m getting real sick of it. “You’re an Avenger.”  
  
“Heh. Right now I’m about as S.H.I.E.L.D. as Captain America.” Which is to say: not at all. “And I’m not HYDRA, so there. I want no part of this.”  
  
Then I have to ask - I’ve been meaning to ask for a while, but I can’t find the right time, or the right words. That also happens to me often - not finding the right words. I keep things to myself until I can’t help it, and they tumble out. Most often as awkwardly as possible.  
  
“Then what’s your deal, huh? Natasha told me you’ve been taking on HYDRA by yourself - at least looked like you were. What’s that about? Dog eat dog? Or redemption arc? Gotta break it to you, kid: those usually don’t end well.”  
  
He winces. Looks away sharply. Yup, maximum awkwardness: infinity plus one. Clint Barton: zero. “It’s not -” His fingers curl and uncurl repeatedly. They shake a little bit. “It’s not that.”  
  
I go with an easier question. Hopefully. “And why did you end up in Bed-Stuy?”  
  
“Natasha Romanoff told me to come to you.” He replies quickly. Mechanical.  
  
“Yeah, you said that before. But just because -”  
  
“Romanoff is smart. She’s an Avenger. She helped Captain America out.” He says meekly. “She - I guess - she’d know the right thing to do.”  
  
“Well.” I let it slide for now. “She’s always been the smarter one out of the two of us. Not sure that’s saying much …”  
  
We ride out the rest of our sun-bath in uncomfortable silence. As we head back to the tourist part of the village so we can catch a boat, Ward finally asks.  
  
“The contact we are meeting - do you really trust them?”  
  
“Valerie May?”  
  
He freezes.  
  
“Of course I trust Val.”  
  
He grows even paler than usual.  
  
“What - who else do you call in Hong Kong?”  
  
Valerie May is the younger, more Communist cousin of _the_ Melinda May. She’s not quite S.H.I.E.L.D., and I’m positive she isn’t HYDRA. Val mostly operates out of Hong Kong, and Beijing lets her do as she pleases given she keeps their best interests at heart. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s interest has overlapped with those a good many times over the years, and that’s when I call on her. I think I've grown on her.  
  
“Oh.” Ward unfreezes with some effort. “I don’t think her cousin likes me.”  
  
“Pssh. I don’t think her cousin likes anybody.” I shrug it off. “Oh wait. She’s on Coulson’s team, isn’t she? Man, did you hurt her feelings or something? I didn’t know she had feelings to be hurt!” And he looks so miserable by this point, even I know I should probably stop.  
  
Meeting with Valerie May is most often an interesting experience. It’s made more interesting by the fact that you never know where the meeting will go down. It could be in one of the suites at the Intercontinental one night, and the back of a fish ball shop in Mong Kok another. This time we are meeting in a crumbling noodles shop off of the Wan Chai subway stop. Front of shop, which is good - I’m starving by the time we get off that blasted tourist boat.  
  
“This is triad business, Barton.”  
  
I almost choke on a fish ball. I mean, Val told me not to eat ‘em whole the first time I tried, but I believe in being optimistic at all times. “Come again?”  
  
“Tri-a-d.” She explains - like I’m five. “Just what have you gotten yourself into this time?"  
  
"I didn't do squat! I _so_ didn’t want to get tangled up with Hong Kong mobsters!" I protest, quite justly if I might add. "Trouble came to my doorstep - literally. But back up, you know this is triad business because?"  
  
"Because that's my job." Val gives a long suffering sigh. "Look, 'master' and 'deputies' are positions within a triad. Translations, of course. The actual term for the leader's more like 'mountain master'."  
  
"Kinky."  
  
"And the 'VIP room behind the waterfall', everyone knows about. There's this soiree at the Shangri-La over in Kowloon on the first Saturday night of every month for, how do I put it, the creme-de-la-creme with a bit of a dark side in this city. Lots of them expats. And the auction in the VIP room is famous."  
  
"For antique teapots?" I quip. Just imagine how funny it'd be if the teapot turns out to be just a teapot.  
  
"They bid on anything - contracts, weapon shipments, drugs; all the classics. And yes, art and antique. Some of them are even sourced legitimately. But more recently, they've auctioned off quite a lot of ... exotics and novelties."  
  
"Exotic as in _alien_?"  
  
"You could say that." She nods. "We've seen one or two Chitauri artifacts since New York. What exactly are you guys after?"  
  
"A teapot. Could be an 0-8-4, but we know nothing, really. Ward here went through all the S.H.I.E.L.D. files we could get our hands on." I look to him. "Right?"  
  
Ward has his eyes firmly down on his bowl of noodles, processing his food slowly and diligently. It looks like it's taking everything out of him to sit here and hold on to those chopsticks so they don't clatter. Val arches a thin, frighteningly well-groomed eyebrow. I should probably explain the kid isn't usually this .. challenged, but she seems more amused than anything.  
  
"Is that right?"  
  
"Y-yeah." Ward is now talking to the table. "Nothing online. But if the 0-8-4 was recorded on paper and never went digital, then it's anybody's guess." All the paper records were considered destroyed when the Triskelion fell. In reality, they could've fallen into anybody's hands.  
  
"Bottom line: we don't know. But Bennett Lau seems to have a good idea of what it is and what it does, or he wouldn't insist being paid this much for a teapot." I offer up my best analysis. "So naturally, we want to find out who the buyer is and have a long chat with Benny."  
  
"Is this Bennett Lau HYDRA?"  
  
"Who knows? Who can tell if anyone is HYDRA nowadays?" I throw up my hands. "Okay, I know I'm not, last time I checked. You're way too chummy with Beijing to be HYDRA. This kid here _used_ to be HYDRA." And Ward looks like he's about to bolt, so I put my foot down. "Nuh-uh, you're staying here till you finish your food." He slouches even lower, and I would take pity on him if I had more empathy and whatnot. "But he's not anymore, I'm pretty sure, and we can always throw in Nat and Cap. So that makes five."  
  
Val shakes her head and laughs. "I knew I was right, not joining S.H.I.E.L.D.."  
  
"Yup. I probably should've stayed a merc too." I pop the last fish ball in my mouth, and chew very carefully. "Say, the triads are like gangs, right? So which triad runs the big Shangri-La auction every month?"  
  
"No one - that's why it works. At least half a dozen different triads have stakes in the biddings, plus many other interested parties."  
  
"Like your puppet masters?"  
  
"Including the Chinese government. And many others." She chides. "We keep an eye on the merchandise every month. Tag some buyers and try to bust them later. Act on the most dangerous numbers right away. You know how it is."  
  
"Well then. Seems like the only way is to go check it out ourselves." I clap my hands. "Val, what do you say you get us some tickets to the main event tonight?"  
  
“I can get you in, Clint. But if anything goes down, my people can’t get you out. They have their own covers to keep.”  
  
“Ehn, no problem. Just focus on getting us in - I owe you a big one, Val.” And that’s how we step into the evening rush hours with a bag full of toys and a plan, at last.  
  
“Hey, kid, ever been in an op without an extraction plan?” I ask casually.  
  
‘A few times.” Ward answers roughly. He seems nervous. But not about the op tonight? I’d be extremely disappointed if the infamous Grant Ward turns out to be chicken. Must be something else.  
  
“Great, welcome to the big leagues then.” I flash a silly grin. “My ops _never_ have extractions plans.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't disappeared! Wanna get this one out before school starts for real.
> 
> Tell me what you think of the action this far? Things are about to get crazy soon!


End file.
